


Triptych

by wolfwine



Category: Leverage
Genre: Bromance to Romance, F/M, Flirting, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Matchmaking, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfwine/pseuds/wolfwine
Summary: Parker has decided that the interactions between Hardison and Eliot have a certain click, and if they're not going to open that up, well, that's what a thief is for.Or a mastermind.Let's go steal a bromance.





	

“Go on and ask him,” said Parker, with a little jerk of her chin back towards the kitchen.

“Ask him what, girl? He already made me my steak.”

“To, you know.” She was a little shimmer of uninformative twitches, and popped one of the home fries into her mouth.

“I’m not gettin’ you.” Hardison speared some of his meat with a fork, gestured with it, frowned minutely.

“You know!” she protested, with a little edge of frustration.

He looked down. “I’m sorry, babe, I don’t.”

“You’ve been. You know. Flirting.”

“I haven’t!”

She poked him in the arm. “Mr. Punchy. You did that special for him.”

“He liked it.” The voice was a little sullen, denying.

“That’s why I’m saying. You make me robot friends. You make him… things. Video things. Special video things.”

“C’mon, Parker. Eliot? The ladies’ man? He had a date with the grocery store chick.”

She hooked her feet up into his lap and palmed another piece of potato off his plate. “What does your steak taste like?”

“… what?”

“What does it taste like? I mean, what does it feel like?”

“What does it feel like? It feels like a damn good steak.”

She frowned. “I mean,” she said, and her jaw worked a bit as she tried to find the right words. Eventually, frustrated, she threw up her hands.

Hardison put his fork down and reached out to touch her cheek, a little tentatively. “I’m sorry, babe, I’m just not, not feeling it, you know?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “No,” she said, and he pulled back his hand. “No, that’s not what I meant, _Hardison_ , I.”

“Okay, girl, I’m listening. I’m listening.”

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Locks,” she said.

“Locks,” he repeated.

“Mmmhmm,” she said, her mouth full for the moment. She swallowed and added, “It’s the click. You listen for the click.”

“Okay?”

She made a little growling noise in the back of her throat. “When we were doing the thing with the van.”

“Lucille?”

“No, the creepy spy van.” She waved her hand a few times; she was holding one of the home fries. “I saw him, all right? The way he, the way he touched you. Looked at you.”

“You weren’t there! You were boosting the van!”

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Rearview mirror,” she said, with excessive patience. “No, it’s just, it’s fiddly, people are fiddly, Eliot is fiddly, but it clicks. He clicks. It’s taken time, but—”

Hardison looked over towards the kitchen. “Eliot is… fiddly.”

“Well, yeah. He’s like me.”

He frowned slightly. “Oh, Eliot’s nothing like you, babe.”

“Is,” she said, stubbornly. “Ask him. Ask him about what makes us us.”

“Wait, what makes you, what—you and Eliot?”

She rolled her eyes again. “I thought this wasn’t going to be a thing.”

“It wasn’t a thing! Until you made it a thing!”

She huffed her hair up out of her face, irritated. “Fine. Just. Trust me, okay?”

“Of course I trust you, babe, I—“

“Trust me. Eliot’s like me. Or I’m like Eliot. Or—“ She poked him in the shoulder. “Anyway, you said you liked how I came out.”

“I do, babe, I do, I—“

“He, he.” She frowned. “He’s your _friend_ , and I’m your _friend_ , and. You got him this kitchen. And Mr. Punchy. And I think you… like him.”

“Not like that!”

Suddenly she grinned. “Oh yeah?” She swung her feet back out of his lap. “I’m going to go tell him you do.”

“Oh no. No no no nonono.” He made a grab for her as she slithered away.

She hopped back, skipping out of his reach with another one of the fries. “Tell me why I shouldn’t!”

“I—“ He stopped for a moment, staring at her. Eventually he said, “I’m with you, babe.”

“Ha!” she said, triumphant.

“Parker, that didn’t mean—“

“It did, it did! I _cracked_ you. I _stole_ it!” Delight lit up her face. “I stole it and I’m going to give it to Eliot!”

He sighed and slumped back in his chair. “Tell me one thing, Parker.”

“Yeah?” she said, with her mouth full.

“Why? Why do you want to tell him?”

She leaned her hands on the table, going suddenly sober. “Because that’s what we do.”

“What do you mean?”

“We _help_ people.”

He sighed. “I’m not getting you, babe,” he said, a bit weakly.

She looked towards the kitchen. “When we were doing the job, with the guy.”

“That’s very specific, babe.”

Parker rolled her eyes, and nibbled thoughtfully at a particularly interesting crusty bit on one of the home fries. “The one we got to give inspirational speeches. I thought Eliot and I should maybe,” she shuffled her feet slightly as she backed away a little, “go to one on how, you know. Need to like yourself so… before people can like you.”

Hardison softened immediately, holding out a hand. “Oh, babe.”

She settled on the edge of the table and squeezed his hand, palming another fry. “Like I said. Eliot’s like me.” She glanced towards the kitchen. “He’s been making it… okay to be me. For me. But now he needs someone to make it okay to be him. For him.”

He let out a long breath, almost whistling with the force of it. “He punches me in the face for making a pass at him you’re going to have to make it up to me,” he finally said.

“He won’t!” she said, and slid off the table, and started to saunter back towards the kitchen. “Hey Eliot, ‘sup!”

Hardison shook his head, watching her go, and picked up his fork. “Hey!” he said then. “Woman, woman? Did you eat all my fries?”

He could hear her laughing in the kitchen, and then quiet, which extended for entirely too long. A few minutes later, the door opened up again, and Eliot made his way over to the table, a plate in one hand.

“Damnit, Hardison,” he said, as he shoved a dish of hot, golden-brown home fries across the table. “You shouldn’t be letting Parker steal all your food. I made that for you. Respect the damn food.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey Eliot, ‘sup?”

“Parker.” He shifted the skillet with one hand, as if it were a light thing rather than iron, his eyebrows drawn down with focus.

“The fries almost done?” she asked, shifting to perch nearby.

“Off the counter, Parker,” Eliot said without looking up. “Five minutes. Why’d you ask me to—“

Hardison’s voice broke in from the other side of the door. “Woman. Woman? Did you eat all my fries?”

Parker hopped down again, chucked Eliot on the shoulder with one fist, and winked broadly.

“Not when I’m cooking,” he said.

She laughed and retreated to a stool, hooking her feet around the legs. “How do you make them so _good_?”

“Duck fat,” he said, gruffly. “You stay there.”

She rolled her eyes into an agreeable sort of humoring nod. “When I’m in your kitchen, I stay off the counters and out of your way,” she said, her tone lightly mocking.

“That’s right.” He checked the potatoes, his scowl deepening slightly. “What’s your game, Parker.” He was not asking; he did look up, meet her eyes, wait with implacable patience.

Her fingers twitched, as if she might snatch one of the fries out of the pan if she were only a little closer; his hands shifted as if he would swat her if she tried. She grinned. “I stole something.”

“You stole Hardison’s potatoes.”

“That’s not the only thing I stole from him,” she said. “I cracked him like a 1963 Glenn-Reeder with a stripped tumbler.”

“Whatever, Parker.” He tapped the spatula against the pan.

She hunched her shoulders forward, blew her hair back from her eyes, frowned. Eliot’s knife flashed; the parsley went to pieces, like magic, the leaves turning to tiny flecks of green and a smudge on the cutting board.

The silence drew out.

Eventually, Parker said, “I’ve got a Thing.”

“Yeah?” He did not look up; he was carefully adjusting the arrangement of a little dish on the plate.

“I mean, it’s not a Thing Thing like, like Hardison’s imaginary elf friends—“

“Orcs,” said Eliot blandly, as he cracked open a bottle of beer and sampled it thoughtfully, before nodding and pouring some into a saucepan.

She smiled; it was a thin, tight thing, but it crinkled the corners of her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed, and he looked up, his eyes flicking point to point to point, his eyebrows coming up in silent question.

“I’ve got a Thing,” she said, with more confidence. “And you need to hear me out.”

He frowned slightly, and pulled down ingredients to whisk in the saucepan, his hands moving with the sort of practiced confidence that drew the eye. Parker watched him for a while, quiet, until he said, “Parker.”

She startled slightly, and then said, “He’s flirting. You like it. You should—” she paused, as he carefully set the saucepan down, turned off the heat, slowly raised his head to look up at her, eyes shadowed and framed by the cowl of his hair. “Do something about that.”

“What should I do, Parker?” he asked, gravelly and intent.

She stared at him. “Stuff!” Her hands flicked, as if throwing a bad hand of cards onto the table. “I stole it from him. His confession.”

“Because you could,” said Eliot, and there was such weariness in his tone. “Parker, the two of you… trouble?”

Her forehead contracted into a tiny knot of puzzlement. “No. Why?”

He sighed and pulled a container out of the refrigerator, cracking it open and spooning some of its contents into the saucepan before putting it away again. “Normal people don’t try to set people up with their boyfriends, Parker.” He turned the heat back on.

“Huh,” she said, and leaned back to contemplate that.

“And it hasn’t seemed like you like him looking at anyone else.” He suddenly abandoned the saucepan to pluck the skillet off the heat and scoop out the potatoes onto the plate, arranging them in a heap around the bowl.

She cocked her head to one side. “What?”

Deft fingers sprinkled the chopped herbs on the fries. “Parker, you strangled a beer bottle.”

She said, “Pff,” and flipped her hand, looking away. “That was a _client._ ”

He made a small noise, amused. “So what’s the difference?” he asked, seeming interested almost despite himself; he sampled the sauce, frowned, and tinkered with it perfectionistically.

“She’s _normal_. I mean. Not a thief. She wouldn't understand, you know. Thief stuff.” She shook her head, and looked painfully earnest as she concluded, matter-of-factly, “It would go bad. He’d get hurt. And then I’d have to kill her.”

Eliot paused for a moment, and then poured the sauce into the dish nestled in the potatoes. Eventually he said, “I can’t, Parker.”

“Yes you can. Why can’t you?”

“I’d hurt him.”

She frowned, and said, “No you wouldn’t.”

“Parker,” he said, frustrated.

“You wouldn’t, Eliot,” she said, with that same open earnestness. “You’d do everything you can in the world to make sure he didn’t get hurt, like you always do. That’s your job, right?”

He grunted. “That’s my job.” He plucked up a tiny sprig of parsley and carefully placed it among the fries.

She unhooked her feet from the stool and hopped down. “You’re so careful about wanting to make sure he won’t get hurt, you’re going to say I shouldn’t have stolen this for you,” she said, intently, as she stalked forward, all predator and grin. “You’ll walk away.”

“You’re right. I’ll walk away.” He watched her, entirely levelly.

She set her arms on the counter and leaned across it. “You won’t.”

“Parker,” he said warningly, his gaze dropping to her elbows.

“You’re not cooking. I’m not sitting on the counter.”

“I—“

“You just finished,” she said, nodding towards the plate. “You want me to tell you the things you did different making that, because you were making it for him?”

He glared at her; when she did not break her gaze, he looked away. “No.”

“You taught me,” she said. “You taught me how to start feeling things. How to … how to be, we’re _us_ , how to, blessing.”

He glanced at her sidelong, nodded.

“I have a Thing, okay? And right now, my Thing is, is you.”

Eliot did not want to be amused, but he could not entirely stifle the smile. “Is me.”

“You’re my _friend_ ,” she said, with a sharp edge of emphasis that made him go still, remembering. “And _he’s_ your friend. We _need_ you.”

He stared at her openly, then, his expression shadowed with those words, that tone. “Parker—“ There was a little growl in his voice, just a hinting edge of anger.

“You know it.”

He glared at her, letting the silence drag on. Eventually he said, “You don’t play your teammates, Parker.”

She looked very serious, intense, with a little flicker of something all sharp edges and implacable commitment. Eventually she said, “Eliot, I know you, you’re a guy. With your. All the, you know. Women.”

“Yeah,” he said, allowing himself to be slightly mollified.

“They’re clients. Or not even clients. _Normal_ people. They won’t get past your… your pressure plates and motion sensors. You’re safe in there, nobody can steal your, your.”

He blinked slowly. “Steal my heart, Parker?”

“That. Yes.” She gestured towards the bar. “He hacked your security. Laser grid.” There was a moment, and then she leered at him, experimentally, as if she was trying out the expression to see how it worked. “Heat sensors.”

Eliot smirked. “And you stole his passcodes.”

“Yyyyup.” She leaned back and looked smug. “You see? You’re already in. You’ve already gotten past the security. He has.”

“You have.”

She shrugged. “I’m a _thief_ ,” she said. “That’s what I do.”

He cocked his head slightly, looking at her, trying to read her; she blinked back at him, nonplussed. Eventually he said, “So I should take him out his fries, you think?”

“They’re ready,” she said.

He nodded. “I made you something,” he said.

“Ooh, what?”

“Fudge brownies with a cherry glaze,” he said, and scooped up the plate in one hand, the remainder of his beer with the other.

She bounced on her toes several times. “Where are they?”

“Why don’t you figure that out, Parker? You’re the thief.” He shouldered open the kitchen door and went out into the bar.

 

 

* * *

 

“Damnit, Hardison,” Eliot said, as he shoved a dish of hot, golden-brown home fries across the table. “You shouldn’t be letting Parker steal all your food. I made that for you. Respect the damn food.”

Hardison looked down at the plate, the huge heap of fries, the dish of dipping sauce nestled into them like an egg in a nest. “Don’t that usually take longer to make?”

Eliot dropped himself into a chair. “Yeah. Parker came through when I was making your steak, said, ‘Oh, when you’re done with that, could you make a big batch of fries, maybe with the mustard thing, for later? Hardison really likes the mustard thing.’”

“Oh, man, you made me the mustard sauce?” began Hardison, diverted, and then the rest of it caught up with him and he slumped back in his chair, brushing his fingers across his chin. “She played us.”

“She played us.” Eliot took a swig of his beer.

“We’re going to have to get her back.”

“Yup.”

Hardison grinned, extended his hand; slap slap bump, settle back, crossed arms, the two of them mirroring each other, light and dark, bruiser and beanpole. It was almost automatic, reflexive, and then they both flinched.

“So… she said some things, huh?”

Eliot drank some more of the beer, nodded slightly.

“So, uh—“ Hardison stared at the bottle. “Are you drinking my eisbock, man?”

“Didn’t wanna waste it.”

“Waste it?”

Eliot gestured towards the plate. “Try your mustard sauce.”

Hardison’s mouth fell open. “You used my eisbock for—“

“ _Try it_ ,” Eliot growled.

“Couldn’t you have used the IPA or, or—“

“Too hoppy, Hardison, you cook with that stuff and it’s like huffing a pinecone.” He had another drink. “You need something with a good malt, something with a sweetness, to temper the heat of the mustard.”

Hardison picked up one of the fries and glared at Eliot over the plate. “Malts. Okay. How about the amber, man, the amber with the, you know, that’s got malts, that’s—“

“You used local hops on the amber, Hardison. And on the stout. Smelled like Liberty.” Eliot was grumpier than usual. “Maybe _Parker_ would like a mustard dip made with that beer, but nobody else is crazy enough to want to dunk their damn fries in Christmas tree.”

“Smelled like Liberty,” repeated Hardison. “How did you—“

Eliot raised his eyebrows and waited.

“All right, all right, they’re very distinctive hops,” he muttered. “So why the eisbock, man, I don’t have that much of it,” he asked, with a plaintive edge.

“The mustard sauce comes out of the kitchen, it uses the doppelbock,” he said, with another drink of his beer. “And that’s good, you know? It’s got this nice toasty undertone. Used the mustard seed mix soaked in it for part of that, it wants to soak overnight, Parker didn’t think of _that_. But I wanted something with a deeper body, a little more kick, getting the spiciness in the beer out, enhance your flavor notes, to pick up the other flavors in the mustard.”

Hardison leaned forward, letting one hand splay on the table. “I was proud of those spicy notes, man. Do you know how many varieties of hops are out there just in common commercial production?”

Eliot smiled, leaned back, his posture going more casual, relaxed. “How many?”

“Try eighty. Eighty! I bet you can’t sniff test all those, can you?” He became animated, enthusiastic, jabbing at the air with one finger. “How many did I try before I got the doppelbock? How many?”

“How many did you try?”

Hardison knew he was being humored, and did not much care. “Seventeen. Seventeen varieties of hops before I got the right touch. Vanguard! Just not right! Cascade! Too citrusy! Simcoe! Too bitter! Chinook! There’s your damn pinecone! Sterling! Too many flowers!”

Eliot let out a half-choked laugh. “There’s a hop called Sterling?”

“Yeah, and it’s too damn light.” He settled back in his chair, rested his fingertips against his chin. “But that, that’s the stuff! And then I icejacked some of that baby.”

The nearly-empty bottle tipped in toast.

“You know it. You know I’m good.”

“Try your damn mustard sauce, Hardison.”

Hardison winked at him. “Age of the geek, brother,” he said, contentedly, and finally dipped the potato in the dip, popped it into his mouth, and closed his eyes. Eliot waited patiently, drinking his beer, until he said, rather reverently, “Oh _yeah_ , yeah. See,” his eyes opened again, “now you point it out, I’m payin’ attention, I see it. I see it. I see what you’re doin’.”

Eliot grunted, satisfied.

Hardison ate some more of the fries, nodding approvingly several times, watching him. Eventually he said, “So, uh, you used the eisbock because Parker asked you to make it for me, special, huh?”

“Food’s gotta be right,” he muttered.

It took quite some time for Hardison to formulate his response to that, and he ate quietly while he did so, quietly savoring his meal. “Makes me feel appreciated,” he said, carefully. “Taking my work, doing, doing this with it,” he gestured towards his dipping sauce. “Like it’s a conversation. We made this happen. This happened because I did something amazing, and you decided you could do something amazing with it.”

Eliot set the empty bottle down and watched him, silent, arms folded.

“So you, you get my art, here, you get me. You get me, you take this, you turn it around, you’re telling me you get me, right? That’s what you’re saying here? And I,” he swallowed. “I think I get you. Well, Parker gets you, she tried to tell me something about the food, I think, only I didn’t get it until I got _this_ , this. Conversation. Collaboration. This,” his shoulders rocked back and forth, “this team food thing we’ve got goin’ on.”

Eliot continued to watch him, expression impassive.

The waiting silence demanded more voice to fill it, and Hardison’s cracked a little, with a little edge of increasingly frantic energy. “I talk too much, you’ll tell me I talk too much, but I’m hearing what you said, here, all right, I hear you. Did you hear me? Me askin’ you to make me a steak? Are we,” he mustered the courage to lift his hands, point with both forefingers, “do we have a meeting of the minds, here?”

Eliot’s eyes flicked upwards, glancing towards the ceiling, and then back to Hardison.

“What I’m sayin’.” Suddenly he took in a breath, and let it out more evenly. “This,” he tapped at the edge of the plate, “is what you do.”

Eliot blinked, several times, and then barked, “What?”

“What was it you said, man? ‘Food is life’?” Hardison stabbed a potato, dipped it in the mustard sauce. “You do, you care about this. I’m not saying that taking out a roomful of bad guys ain’t hot as hell—“

He made a small noise, allowed a small smirk.

“But this is what you _do_. Life. Food is life. Your Thing, Parker would say, right? It’s right out there in the open. You, giving life. All the time, and—“ He stopped, leaned back. “You don’t even see it, do you?”

Eliot scowled, picked up the bottle, remembered it was empty, and thumped it down on the table irritably.

“Life. Giving life. Making it all come together,” Hardison’s hands came up, cupping the air, “harmoniously. And this, this,” he gestured at the last dregs of his meal, “This is you. Giving me life. Together. Us.”

Eliot pushed away from the table suddenly, stood up, turned away. “Damnit, Hardison,” he snarled.

“Eliot, wait.” Hardison stood, took two steps to the side, to get to the edge of the table.

“I told her I’d walk away.”

“You quit this crew when you say you quit this crew. I remember,” said Hardison.

“Not quitting the _crew_ , I—“

“Parker said you were helping her feel that it was okay for her to be Parker. I owe you, man. I owe you for that.” Hardison’s voice was suddenly gentle.

Eliot snapped, “You don’t _owe_ me.”

He shrugged. “All right, I don’t owe you. Doesn’t change a thing.”

“What doesn’t it change, Hardison?”

“You think you’re on the outside, man. But you’re not. I’m – we’re – here for you. Always will be. Like you are for us. Together, right, we change together."

Eliot turned, slowly, glared at him. “I know what I am.”

“You’re the man made me a damn good steak and this mustard thing to go on my fries.” Hardison shrugs. “You’re the man saved my ass more times’n I can count.”

“Doesn’t erase what I’ve done.”

“No.”

Finally the rage exploded. “What do you _want_ from me, Hardison?”

Hardison did not allow himself the flinch. “With Parker, I told her I’d be there when she decided she wanted me,” he said. “But I can’t say that to you.”

“Why not?”

“Gives you an out. Pretend this never happened. Never have to come around, can always say you never wanted.”

“And what if I don’t?”

Hardison leaned one hand on the table. “You can’t tell me you made me that meal and expect me to believe that,” he said. “Now that I know how to listen. Smartest man you know, you called me. Do you think I’m smart enough to say the right thing here?”

Eliot folded his arms. “Try me.”

“You’re afraid.”

Eliot snorted dismissively and looked away.

“See, there you go. Scoffing at me. Because you know I’ve hit. You’re afraid that if someone sees you as anything other than a stone cold killer, you’ll lose the weight of the guilt. Maybe slide back into doin’ that again. Maybe you think that being alone like that’s the only fair way to pay for it. I don’t know. But I look at you, and I see you’re afraid.”

“I’m not alone, Hardison. I got—”

Hardison cut him off. “How many people really know you? Know what you’ve done, and still love you.”

Eliot’s arms unfolded, one hand forming into a fist, and he took a step forward and roared, “You don’t know what I’ve done!”

“I’m the smartest man you know, Eliot. Think about what I just said and tell me again, straight-up, look me in the eye, say that I don’t know.” He waited, waited, watched, as the fight slowly ebbed out of Eliot, the fist uncurled, his gaze dropped. “Food is life.”

“Food is life,” he echoed, mutedly.

“So now I’ll say it. Not going to push you, man. Gone give you your space, let you think about it. But I’ll be here. And I’ll be thinking of this conversation every time I ask you to cook for me. And I know you will be too.”

Eliot stared at him, and glanced up at the ceiling, and said, “C’mere.”

Hardison took a step forward, and Eliot hooked an arm around him, dragged him to one side. “What, what you doin’?”

“Parker’s in the air vent,” he said, gruffly. “Spyin’ on us and eating brownies.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Because Parker. And brownies.” Eliot hooked a hand into the front of Hardison’s shirt and pulled him forward, leaning up to kiss him, almost too quickly to be believable; he had already let go and shoved him away when there was the sound of the grate moving and a cascade of blond hair emerging from the ceiling.

“You two good?” she said, peering at them upside-down.

Eliot gave Hardison a little nod, as if to say ‘told you so’, and called up, “How’re the brownies?”

She considered, and licked her fingertips thoughtfully. “Taste like… friends.”

 

 


End file.
